


Lengthy Conversations

by AnnaBolena



Series: These Years Spent in Paris [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Etta James “At Last” starts playing in the background, Just Bro Things, M/M, Mutual Pining, Philosophical Debate Buddies Enjolras and Grantaire, Pre-Canon, September 1825-January 1826
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 07:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19695511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “I disagree,” Enjolras says, eyes considering. He is frowning. “I believe two people to be fully capable of offering mutual support and affection to one another without falling prey to the selfish impulses you have described. You have rather a despondent outlook on human capacity for goodness, if you will permit me to say it.”“As long as their interests align, perhaps,” Grantaire concedes. “But put a conflict between two lovers, it will start to erode the bond."a.k.a. Grantaire and Enjolras doing romantic Things





	Lengthy Conversations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enjoloras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/gifts).



> Warning for: Mentions of Abuse in the Context of a Debate, theoretical

**September 1825 - Paris, France**

The weather is temperate when he finds Bahorel with his back bowed over, one hand clutching the wall of whatever disreputable establishment served him this early in the day. It is not a Café Grantaire favors. Having evidently just emptied his stomach, Bahorel coughs violently, then spits distastefully, adding to the growing puddle bit by bit.

“Quite a subversion of my expectations to find you the one thus taken out of commission,” Grantaire says innocuously, announcing his presence so that he does not earn himself another broken nose for having surprised the giant. Bahorel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are bloodshot and his colouring pale - Grantaire would be concerned for serious health problems if he did not see the half-empty bottle of absinthe still dangling from Bahorel’s grip, enclosed by the bloodied fist currently not steadying him against the aging bricks. A few green drops have stained Bahorel’s pristine white sleeve. Ordinarily, that would bring him dismay. Bahorel cares a great deal about his garments - it is his constant regret in the aftermath of impromptu fisticuffs, to find his garderobe ruined.

“I have had word from Giselle,” Bahorel answers by way of explanation. As far as reasons for making a public nuisance of oneself go, it is not the worst. Lord knows Grantaire has given in to that particular temptation for much less. Giselle left Paris months ago, Grantaire wonders at her having addressed herself to Bahorel now.

“Maybe let us remove ourselves from the effects her letter has wrought from you, lest the ordinances think fit to arrest you for disturbing the King’s peace.”

Bahorel’s laugh is loud despite his rather obvious heartbreak. It is unfortunate and no small amount of disconcerting to see so boisterous a man reduced to so sorry a state. At the very least he still has his words about him. Grantaire cannot claim as much as often.

“I had no mind to leave the Café yet, only some lordly folks took issue with my drunkenness,” Bahorel shrugs. “Lead the way to more welcoming a watering hole, there yet remains wine in Paris to be drunk.”

“Perhaps by the end of the night we will have drunk her dry.”

“We shall launch an honourable attempt, at the very least,” Bahorel agrees, face now set in grim determination. Once seated at the rather more disreputable Corinth and plied with drink, Bahorel’s tongue loosens further. “Giselle is with child,” he reveals, staring morosely down into his cup, “It is my child, undoubtedly, for her husband is both old and impotent, but that seems not to matter. The old bastard was magna- majna - _magnanimous,_ goddammit _,_ enough to take her back and reconcile their marriage, under the condition that she stop seeing me.”

The words are spit out, sharply pronounced, undoubtedly cited directly. Few have mastered the art of drunken eloquence, few are so verbose as he when inebriated, and magnanimous is not a word delivered easily from a tongue so uncontrolled.

“I cannot believe that she will truly do such a thing, Bahorel…”

“She has done such a thing already, by sending me the letter. They are for Italy in but a few days, their return to France uncertain.”

Grantaire does not quite know what to say. He attempts to offer comfort, but Bahorel shrugs his hand off his shoulder with an embarrassed grunt.

“My own child is to be raised by a Lord, and one as conservative as him! It is enough to make a man go grey, tear his hair out in grief.”

“Was it not you who professed a desire to father no children to me just a few months ago?”

Bahorel frowns more deeply, considers his cup as his cheeks grow red.

“I had not thought on it for long enough to give it serious consideration. But now that one is on the way, and now that it has been taken from me before I ever...I would have liked to teach the child the ways of revolution, that is all I think.”

“If it is a protégé in the art of civil disobedience you want I am sure there are many options of procuring one, orthodox or not.”

Bahorel’s elbow finds his side roughly, but there’s a small grin on his face for the time being. Just as well.

“Grantaire?”

Enjolras stands with two cups in hand when Grantaire raises his eyes to where his name was called from. Grantaire saw the younger man only a week ago, but the sight of him is enough to require prophylactic fortification. Enjolras looks resplendent, it is apparent the orders he proclaimed as odious - to acquire some new waistcoats and pants - have finally been completed. They fit him superbly well. Whoever clothed him before he switched tailors must have been an unskilled fellow, to get his measurements so wrong. These clothes bestow a hint of regality to the picture that makes Enjolras, they make his back appear straighter, his shoulders broader - even his chin seems to lift a little higher. Distantly he considers Enjolras would produce rather lovely a pout if Grantaire pointed out the comparison he drew just now, to monarchical creatures.Though he would dearly love to see it, he holds off for the sake of peace. Today is not about his own satisfaction, after all, he stepped outside to return cheer to a friend.

“Ah,” Enjolras notices the friend in need of cheer, slumped over though he is, “And Bahorel, a good day to you, citizen.”

“Monsieur Enjolras,” Grantaire greets, craning his neck a little to search for the requisite companion, the only reason Enjolras would willingly enter such an establishment while it was still light on the street. Enjolras notices and sighs, nodding his head towards the backdoor. It does not take long to suss out that one of the serving girls is conveniently absent.

“Quality entertainment for _him_ , to be sure, though it does leave me rather high and dry. I do not wish to impose, but alas…”

Bahorel lifts his head from the desk and extends a hand to shake.

“You are welcome at our table, Enjolras, always, though I am afraid I am hardly fit to entertain if you do not take pleasure in another man’s sorrow. As for Grantaire, I am afraid he has been _requisitioned_ to suffer my ramblings, thus I cannot allow you to take…pardon me -” Here Bahorel belches rather impolitely, “… to take him from me.”

Enjolras furrows his brow. His curls tilt to the side rather elegantly when he cocks his head, like a bale of silk sliding off a naked shoulder, slowly but with a certain inimitable viscosity. Grantaire has studied the movement of silks for quite a few of his works - he can say confidently that Enjolras’ hair comes close.

“Bahorel’s mistress, it seems, has quit him for good,” Grantaire reveals, patting Bahorel’s back and dutifully refilling their cups. “At last the twisted lines on her husband’s ancient forehead were too alluring to resist -- or perhaps it was his purse, who can say?”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Enjolras nods at Bahorel, stiffly. There is an impression of stern disapproval that always colors Enjolras’ tone when the topic is breached, though he is never without compassion. “I confess I did not know the girl well - Giselle, was it? - but she seemed to me to be rather taken with you.”

Bahorel throws his cup back. Grantaire suspects the man to consider himself not yet drunk enough for this conversation. Trust Enjolras to waste no time initiating a conversation Grantaire would have held off on until Bahorel could spill his heart as they hobbled home together, despair whispered into a friendly ear and soon forgotten.

“By taking up with me she found herself alienated from friends, family...desperately in want of connection. I suppose the pressure mounted until she could no longer bear it. Last year her parents refused her any supportive allowance. I do believe that spelled the beginning of the end of our love.”

“The nature of women!” Grantaire crows loudly, “Their love is fickle, their hearts uncertain, their-”

“You are too harsh by far,” Enjolras protests sharply, eyes narrowing at Grantaire. He wears fury well, it suits the new waistcoat even better than the old.

“Too harsh? Do you suppose _you_ would quit a lover you have chosen for your own if it meant your family would express their disapproval by means of pecuniary deprivation? Come now, concede that I know you better than to consider that for even a second, and hold the female sex to the same standards as you do yourself.”

Enjolras’ cheek ticks. It is not twitching towards a smile. Perhaps Grantaire ought not to have brought it up. The man has never mentioned a family, past the sparse information of hailing from near where Courfeyrac’s family still resides and the easily deductible information of two parents having to have existed at some point in time. There have been occasional mentions, to be sure. But when referring to family, Enjolras generally means Courfeyrac and the as of yet unfamiliar Élodie. Perhaps it is a sore topic, perhaps he is left without blood relations—

“I would not, no,” Enjolras answers at last, his voice once more even. “But neither would many women. Make not the mistake of thinking them all birds of a feather, Grantaire, for you do them a great injustice.”

Hands bear down on Enjolras’ shoulders, signaling the arrival of the previously searched for Monsieur. Courfeyrac grins as he speaks: “Nor, let us make this clear, is a desire of financial security a vice or fault. How can it be, when we provide women almost no means of securing their own livelihoods? If they do not want to work on their backs or instead break them in a factory, what choice do they have but to rely on the men in their lives? I dare say the options afforded to men are rather more appealing.”

“Well said,” Enjolras smiles up at Courfeyrac, squeezing one of his hands. “You were rather quicker than anyone anticipated, my friend.”

“A veiled insult if ever I heard one, your criticism of my stamina is duly noted,” Courfeyrac feigns offense, but breaks the act too quickly with a bright smile, pulling a fourth chair up and helping himself to the second cup Enjolras brought. “I am nothing if not forthcoming, and she told me she much preferred a bed, so a bed we will have, but it will have to wait another day or so. What has Bahorel looking so morose?”

“Giselle prefers a more luxurious bed than the one he may offer,” Grantaire once more reiterates.

Courfeyrac nods sagely.

“Fickle hearts…”

“Is he not to be criticized?” Grantaire gestures towards Courfeyrac, raising a meaningful eyebrow at Enjolras.

“I believe Courfeyrac to be fully reflective of the fact that his own passions are the most fickle of them all, given that just last night he introduced me to a new object of affection.”

“Oh yes,” Courfeyrac attempts solemnity, but in this regard it fits him ill, “I practice constant reflection with the aim of improving myself.”

“You are a dirty liar, Courfeyrac,” Bahorel laughs. “Come, drink and give a poor sod some advice on reaching the admirable goal of breaking with the habit of pursuing married women - you take up with them often enough, do you not? You make quite the expert on the subject.”

“A loveless marriage should not stand in the way of passions, that is all I know, though certainly many would disagree with me. I once knew a girl that had been wedded to a sixty year old man at the tender age of fourteen. Being a good and charming girl, initially she tried to please her husband and be a dutiful wife. Only, it would appear he was a right curr. By the time she was nineteen her soul had withered nearly completely.”

“And I suppose we have your generous appendage to thank for returning her soul unto her?” Grantaire leers. Bahorel is made to laugh.

Enjolras clicks his tongue in disapproval, “That is crude, Grantaire.”

“Not my best work, to be sure, but it is only eleven. Hand me another bottle and see my eloquence increased greatly.”

Enjolras’ lip curls, his features distorted as though he has been made to taste something unfathomably unpalatable. How then the discussion turns to marriage and its sanctity, Grantaire cannot say. Much of that transition is lost on him as he goes to relieve himself, by the time he returns Enjolras has worked himself up into a heated debate. Grantaire observes the movement of his hands, flowing and changing as though he were some parliamentary man discussing the Rights of Man rather than a student preaching to men only looking to get drunk. It is to Enjolras’ credit that his otherwise inclined companions pay him enough respect to still engage in the debate.

That Enjolras would rather Grantaire remain sober is left unspoken. They are both aware of it. Grantaire fails to comply, signalling instead for another bottle. He pretends Enjolras’ eyes do not cut him to the quick.

“Come now, Enjolras,” Bahorel cajoles, having clearly kicked the man’s shin lightly beneath the table after he once more takes to scolding him, “Such is the essence of our most treasured Grantaire. A jokester! A rhetorician! A true force of fucking nature to be reckoned with. Put a bottle in his hand and he is transformed into something unstoppable.”

“I am certain the man is capable of displaying his bountiful wit without debasing the conversation,” Enjolras responds primly. Grantaire pointedly stares into his cup. It has been known to happen, Enjolras is right. He feels perfectly capable of entertaining Enjolras when they are engaged in debate. But add some more to the mix and Grantaire inevitably finds himself relenting to his old tricks, attempting to garner a laugh there, to collect a slap on the back here. It is why despite feeling anxious when Enjolras comes calling on him, it is also a relief to be alone with him. He knows already that he cannot win Enjolras’ approval as he usually goes about charming people, tricking them into finding him amiable.

+

Gros’ words still grate on his nerves when he drudges up the creaky old stairs to his rooms. T _oo Romantic,_ he hears, _too full of human sentiment for something depicting a deity. There ought to be something higher about it - Grantaire, your inspiration has been sorely lacking in recent weeks, you’ve turned into a regular Géricault. Whatever is the matter with you, shall I expect a Scène de Naufrage from you in the coming weeks, is that all you will give me?_

He had not fought the harsh judgement, instead accepted it silently, all the while longing for a bottle. The sad truth is that Gros is not entirely wrong. His art has suffered in recent months, in part due to a sudden, painful lack of a muse. His hands can put nothing good to paper anymore, his heart breaks over every wasted canvas. Isobel’s eyes stare back at him no matter what he attempts to draw. Before he can stop himself, he has added a crinkle to those eyes, as though in a haze he attempts to make her smile for him on paper, as she had done so often in life. It is never quite enough to satisfy his ambitions, but all the same the emotion portrayed is too much for Gros. Vexing, indeed.

_Whatever is the matter with you?_

Grantaire could not say. He could not answer that question the first time he heard it spoken in such a context, when he was still a lad and found himself utterly unable to perform even the simplest mathematical operations on paper. There had been an emptiness inside of him then, brought about by God only knows what. Occasionally it has left him be for a brief spell of found purpose, but sooner or later it permeates his skin and creeps into his body once more, hollows him out entirely, pushes any utility right out of his pores. It is inexorable, in a manner of speaking.

Perhaps he was not made for Classicism, perhaps he ought to have found a teacher in the more Romantically inclined. Perhaps, perhaps - but what is done is done. Grantaire has wasted too much of his life already. To begin his studies anew now would surely mean a final adieu from his father’s support. It is half a miracle Grantaire may yet count on the allowance, for without it he would surely be lost, blending smoothly into the sea of the many gaunt faces on Paris’ streets, begging for reprieve that will only come when it walks hand in hand with death.

_Whatever is the matter with you?_

Waiting for him on his door is another flower, more delicate than the last two, perhaps freshly plucked. One single red Azalea, tied with a silken white string. Grantaire marvels at it, takes it in hand. Once more there is no message attached, but Grantaire cherishes the offering nonetheless, now that it has become apparent the continued flowers must be for him. 

The flower spends the night on his nightstand, the stem cut just so and placed in a small vase. It has been rather long since he has been able to make use of a vase. Grantaire sleeps deeply that night.

+

Bahorel fashions his drenched strands of dark hair into an orderly queue once more as they clean themselves up, their weapons discarded.

“I met for lunch with Enjolras, yesterday,” Bahorel recounts. Grantaire sets his shoulders, trying not to appear startled at the sudden mention of the name. Enjolras has come up in conversation with some regularity in recent months, but the growth seems, to Grantaire, to be rather exponential.

“I trust the food was good?”

“Rather, though he made no comment on it. I thought the delights of oysters would surely induce him to voice appreciation…”

“Hm,” Grantaire responds, flexing his hands. He has but a few signs of wear and tear today. That ought to be a good thing, he supposes; that he is once more growing strong enough to hold Bahorel off. “Did you take him to the Café Bellaire? You know well that it is the best place for oysters in Paris.”

“I would not dare take him elsewhere. Now you have distracted me, Grantaire,” Bahorel chides. “I meant to tell you about Enjolras’ plans.”

“To be sure he has many of those, lofty as they tend to be,” Grantaire agrees, rather wishing they could speak of anything else.

Bahorel leans in closer as they step into the crowded street, his voice uncommonly low, to say: “We thought to begin holding meetings with like-minded individuals.”

Grantaire wishes he did not feel himself transported back to 1822, but it seems they are doomed to repeat the past. There are only few men in Paris that do not eventually submit to the deference expected of them, but to Grantaire it seems he knows too many of them to ever count his life secure.

+

It is not surprising to hear the sound of paper, initially. He has company today and Enjolras often peruses his bookshelves when he pays him a visit, leafing through whatever tome catches his interest.

He had even borrowed one of Grantaire’s novels, once, though he claimed not to enjoy it overly much Grantaire occasionally watches him run his finger along the spine of it in fond remembrance. On such occasions a smile plays across his lips that he always considered thoughtful - evidently he had taken some pleasure in the reading of it, even if he will deny it in favor of declaiming Rousseau’s political work as the pinnacle of human wisdom. At this point, Grantaire believes it to be more perfunctory than anything else. Once arrived in Paris ready to delve into the depths of knowledge she has to offer, Enjolras outgrew the man within a matter of weeks. How could he not, exposed to the plethora of genius sold by dodgy souls behind venues any young man of good standing would be counseled to avoid. But Rousseau’s, Grantaire supposes, remains the mind who first introduced Enjolras to subversive thoughts, and thus there is more sentiment to their connection, in strict defiance of rationale that would make anyone possessing a healthy amount of good judgment to roll their eyes at some of the nonsense put to paper by men history considers great. 

Enjolras hungers for literature with an urgency he has scarcely seen in other men, as though he thinks he may be denied it if he does not vociferously scarf down as much of it at a time as possible. Here Grantaire is generous in sharing what works he owns, if only because he supposes it saves Enjolras both the trouble and money which must be put into clandestinely acquiring illegal texts.

Thus he thinks nothing of it when he cuts cheese and bread for their dinner while he leaves the man to it. Tonight he has even procured some grapes, as Enjolras had announced intentions to call on him. That is not a luxury always afforded to him.

(“There is a rather mean philosophical quandary which has been bothering me. I do believe I require someone to ponder it with me, only Courfeyrac is not available to anyone not sharing his bed at the moment.”)

Grantaire has learned to hide his surprise that the man continues to seek out his presence in spite of his myriad missteps when they keep company. There is something to be said for not looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Oh, the fall of Troy will surely come, upon a day. But Grantaire is gluttonous enough to enjoy all of Enjolras that he may until he is made to fall at last. It is rather a fascinating picture, to think of his reason as poor Cassandra, shouting at him to guard himself against leading the foray further into the making of Enjolras, against indulging all of his whims so readily. That would make the rest of him a City, would it not? Privately Grantaire is amused by the notion that within him there live a thousand warriors willing to blindly trust what they are given, even at the risk of peril.

Surprise at last arrives, overwhelming and debilitating, when he turns to find Enjolras in the midst of looking through an old portfolio, one he had thought locked away.

He feels the urge to rip it from the man’s hands—too late, as it is clear he has already seen many of his works, but he did give Enjolras leave to have at all of his shelves.

Enjolras tilts his head at one of the sheets. A stray curl comes undone and falls into his face. He frowns.

“You have drawn this woman a lot. I do believe to have seen her in many of your compositions - but this is different, only a sketch. And she is laughing, without costume.”

Grantaire knows immediately which portrait he is studying. He does not want to talk about Isolde. Joly despairs over it, Bossuet sighs, Musichetta shares his reluctance and they keep a mournful silence together. More, Grantaire cannot give.

“Very astute. Will you take tea or wine?”

“Who is she?”

Enjolras’ voice is curious, his face so very earnest. Once more Grantaire finds it hard to deny him.

“A friend of the dear Musichetta; She was good enough to pose for me on occasion.”

It feels reductive, to speak of her thus. There was more to the girl than the friendships formed with those who remained after she passed on. Now there hardly remains anything. In the months Paris spent recovering from her recent dance with Cholera, the casualties of such events have been paid little mind. Wherever Isolde is at rest now, Grantaire would not find her remains among the bones of her fellow factory girls. Too many fell for there to be distinct graves. Such privileges are afforded only to the very wealthy. The nearest approximation of a goodbye would be to stand at that mass grave, but speaking to the air there would feel too public, affording nowhere near the intimacy he would like to pay final respects to someone so treasured.

As it is Grantaire has vague memories, blurred by grief, of holding a weakening body and at last closing eyes on a cold, lax face.

“And who is Musichetta?”

“Another friend— well, you do not know Lesgles and Joly, do you? Two of my good friends, they are besotted with the same girl, a sweet factory worker and a gentle soul. But yes, of course you have not been introduced to her, how could you have been?”

“I admit to some confusion. Your subject is her friend? Or is this Musichetta?”

“No, the girl you are admiring was Musichetta’s most dearest friend.”

“Was there a falling out?” Enjolras wonders, studying the sketch more intently.

“Not at all,” Grantaire hedges, wondering how best to end the conversation. At Enjolras’ confused look, he is pressed to continue: “The poor girl died in the spring.” 

“Oh.”

“Cholera,” Grantaire explains, feeling once more overcome with emotion. He takes a few steadying breaths, focusing on making tea. Enjolras had not given him an answer, but something would be amiss if he should suddenly prefer wine over another beverage.

“I am so sorry to hear it,” Enjolras’ voice is closer than Grantaire expected. When he turns around, he finds their toes to nearly be touching. Enjolras glances downward meaningfully. Grantaire follows the trail to see his hand outstretched. It is an odd gesture, but he supposes Enjolras means the press of his hand to be comforting. In a manner, it is.

“Thank you,” Grantaire manages, “She is dearly missed.”

He cannot help that his voice cracks as he struggles to speak. Something clouds Enjolras’ eyes - sadness? Enjolras turns away from him. Slowly he puts the sheets of paper back in order.

“You loved her.”

“I knew her only a month or two. Now I beg, let us turn our thoughts towards the debate you have sought tonight.”

+

Courfeyrac’s building juts out proudly among the others on the street. It seems a smidge more distinguished, to be sure; as are its residents. Having been invited to dinner as often as he now has, Grantaire has encountered the couple and their maid on the ground floor on occasion, has inclined his head and received a nod in return.

It feels disingenuous, Grantaire thinks sometimes, to enter such a house, given the state of him. The misleading connotation his presence here induces is that Grantaire belongs in such circles, is in fact willingly accepted into the company of someone as distinguished as Monsieur de Courfeyrac – and was that not a particular shock to find out; that he dined with the aristocracy regularly? His father had been delighted to hear it, had sent one of his finest wines in answer. Grantaire supposes the man would sing a drastically different tune after being in Courfeyrac’s company for an evening. His words are anathema to noble minds. Occasionally Grantaire wonders if Courfeyrac is capable of donning a mask, hiding his radical thoughts if the need arises. Hardly a more adaptable creature than he is to be found in Paris’ street, but to disguise so strong a fervor as his seems a gargantuan task.

Nevertheless, he hastens to accept any invitation extended to him. And reliably, whenever he runs into Courfeyrac, an invitation is extended, on Enjolras’ behalf as well, though to be sure that is more formality than sentiment. Enjolras himself has never invited Grantaire to dinner. True, he seeks Grantaire out rather often, but always, it seems, with the aim of sharpening his philosophical reasoning. There seems little private interest. Then again, does Grantaire not beat a hasty retreat whenever Enjolras makes inquiries into his personal life?

Courfeyrac opens the door to him and shakes his hand genially, offering to take his cap. Enjolras is hot on his heels, rather less amused until he lays eyes upon Grantaire.

“Félix you always invite company without telling me, you know how I hate – Ah, good evening, Grantaire, what a pleasant surprise.”

There you have another oddity that has been observed by Grantaire during the small glances he has been allowed into their lives. Within the confines of their home, Enjolras takes to bestowing the immeasurable intimacy of given names upon Courfeyrac. Grantaire supposes that, having grown up together as they claim to, it is only right. Invariably, however, Courfeyrac’s response is a smile, not reciprocation.

Accompanying the smile today is: “My dear boy, I rather thought you would not mind my inviting Grantaire. Did you not tell me only this morning that you had something to discuss with him? I thought I would save you the trouble of walking across the city, at least tonight.”

An unusual thing it is indeed, to have only one party employ the given name.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire aborts the movement to doff his cap as he realizes Courfeyrac has already taken it from him. No time to be embarrassed, for Enjolras sways towards him, furrowing his brow and at the last second offering a hand instead.

Courfeyrac has his arms crossed, leaning against the wall and beholding Enjolras with unmistakable fondness.

“Shall we go through to dinner? Like this you are rather letting in a draft.”

Enjolras draws his hand back from Grantaire, rolling his shoulders backwards, stiffening his back.

“Tonight it is all prepared by my own hand, I am sorry to say. Pray let me know if you begin to feel nauseous, though I think by that point there shall be little we may do for you,” Courfeyrac jokes, leading the way. The light self-deprecation, Grantaire supposes, is another mark of a genial host. Enjolras laughs. It is a fine line to tread, Grantaire consistently finds himself crossing into the territory that verges on pathetic.

“Do not listen to him, Courfeyrac dearly loves to undersell his merit to earn all the more praise in which he may then bask,” Enjolras is close enough to whisper into Grantaire’s ear. Somehow, Courfeyrac still hears him. Perhaps Enjolras spoke louder than intended and Grantaire only heard it faintly over the terribly loud sound of his rushing blood. “Everything you have prepared for us has been palatable thus far.”

“Oh, my dear, you flatter me. Tell me… are you afraid I would poison you out of spite if you insulted my cooking?”

“I never flatter you,” Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps you should practice on me, on occasion,” Courfeyrac winks as he sets the soup down onto the table, “So as to make sure the intended recipient of your flirtations knows to recognize them as such.”

“Hold your tongue!”

“What’s this?” Grantaire grins so that he does not grimace. Enjolras and Courfeyrac hold one another’s eyes, one glaring and the other issuing a silent challenge.

“Nothing of import; Courfeyrac is merely testing the limits of my patience once more,” Enjolras finally answers.

“And now that I have found them intact as they ever were, we may eat, may we not?” Courfeyrac prompts, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Temporarily taken out of commission by Courfeyrac’s words, Enjolras eats his soup silently, leaving Grantaire to make awkward small talk with Courfeyrac. It is beyond Grantaire how a person can convey anger while eating, but Enjolras manages it perfectly. He need not even look upon Courfeyrac to make his displeasure known, it fills the room completely.

“How fares your sister, Courfeyrac?”

“Clamoring to join us in Paris once more, but in the absence of that possibility she sends her fondest regards.”

Enjolras’ head snaps up from his self-imposed culinary recluse. “You did not tell me we had a letter.”

“It arrived only this afternoon, else I would have shared it with you already. Peace, Enjolras, I did not yet have the opportunity to read it for myself. I did note that she included a book for you, however.”

“Has she?”

It is unmistakable how Enjolras softens at the mention of Courfeyrac’s sister.

“A Vindication of the Rights of Women,” Courfeyrac nods, “By a British Madame, it would seem. Élodie has been practicing her languages as of late. One wonders at her ambitions, my father would say. Certainly she will impress no husband with such knowledge.”

“I applaud her efforts nonetheless. Do make sure to allow me some space on the response to thank her, I have been looking for that work for some time now.”

Courfeyrac hums. “Grantaire, have you read anything of Wollstonecraft’s work?”

To once more be drawn into the conversation comes as a surprise. He fumbles the answer. “I am familiar with the particular work your sister sent, actually. My brother studies in England and regards such female authors with great deprecation. Quite often I have been made to suffer his amateur rhetoric on the matter.”

“I did not know you had a brother.” – Enjolras again, in a tone of surprise, before he continues: “Pray, tell us what you made of it.”

“Truth be told, I rather liked some of her attacks on various would-be geniuses, though I shall not reveal all so that you may enjoy it just as I have. By the end of her work, however, I felt thoroughly judged for enjoying sensuality and love alike. It would seem that I am no creature of reason. Thus, in her eyes, I am debased.”

“And how lucky we are to be such,” Courfeyrac grins, raising his cup to Grantaire’s in a toast. “I confess I felt much the same reading it. I do not like to think of myself as someone who imprisons women in a bond which disadvantages them, yet I wonder if I do not unintentionally ruin them by way of seduction.”

“I suppose that depends,” Grantaire pauses to swallow soup, “For one, there is the matter that you take a vested interest in your sister’s education, no doubt your mistresses experience comparable intellectual stimulation in your company. That leaves me to wonder whether you agree with Madame Wollstonecraft that passion takes away one’s capability for reason, if you do it would make a strong cause for a return to celibacy, perhaps monogamy, if celibacy is not to be accomplished.”

“Do you?” Courfeyrac returns the proverbial ball to him.

“History is littered with tales of what love drives us to do, is it not? If you were an outsider and only heard these stories all your life as opposed to having experience guide you, love would seem base to anyone, to not say anything of mere passion! To be sure, reason is the more virtuous guide, but reason too has killed and not felt nearly as good in the meantime. I dare say it was cold, economic reasoning, not love, which destroyed Africa, to offer just one example. Love, however, or a twisted corpse of it, drowned three hundred of a harem and killed Desdemona…If neither be innocent why not partake in the pleasurable?”

“Hedonist,” Courfeyrac grins into his wine.

“Do you not suppose love to be capably virtuous, then?” Enjolras wonders, leaning back in his chair, one hand swung across the back haphazardly. He looks at his nails as though they bore him, awaiting an answer. “The Bible, for one, seems to have rather more innocent a notion of love, in theory, and to be sure there would not be so many odes to the sentiment if it were not in some ways deserving of merit?”

“Oh you would find the same amounts of poems decrying love as cruel and abhorrent,” Courfeyrac interjects between sips.

“Have you fallen in love lately, Enjolras? Allow me to assure you that even as one tries to fight it off, love inevitably obscures reason. And if reason is the basis of virtue, as Wollstonecraft argues, it follows that love cannot be virtuous. At the very least it cannot be so for long. Even the most pure of heart have their love tainted before very long. Such is the course of nature--”

“Monsieur, I do believe I asked what _you_ think, not how you may re-construct someone else’s argument.” Now Enjolras lifts his gaze to meet his eyes in a challenge. “Already you have contradicted your earlier words.”

“Do I contradict myself, or do I merely allow for irregularities in a mind of little order? In my opinion, to be in love is to constantly struggle against selfish impulses until the fight is lost.”

Courfeyrac leans back in his chair as well now, folding his hands over his waistcoat, waiting, expectant. Enjolras gestures with his cup of water for him to go on. The act is charmingly regal, but Grantaire foregoes pointing it out.

“You wish for me to elaborate? Are you certain? I do believe that by the time I finish I shall have bored you half to death.”

“Try me,” Enjolras raises a brow, takes another sip.

“Very well, I consent to try you and your patience, but do keep in mind that you requested it. Love, if we take it to mean adoration of the entirely chaste kind, leaving the complicated nature of passion out of the equation for the time being, is accompanied most often by a desire to protect the recipient of such affection, do you not agree? Yes, I should think you would. It comes with the territory, because to see your loved one safe is to be able to enjoy them for a while longer – in the end that is also selfish. Or else it assures the possibility that, at a later date, you may be reunited, if ensuring their safety requires their removal from your presence, for the time being. Think of Romeo’s flight from Verona after he murdered Tybalt, here, for example – surely Juliet did not wish for him to depart? But she had to suffer it, or else he would be killed. You could argue for either selflessness or selfishness in such a case, I concede. Or, if you wish for me to present a more worldly example, consider the men who go to fight in someone else’s war so that it does not encroach on their homes, where their wives, children or mistresses reside…

…There we have our first case of love’s many vices. If we look at it in the abstract, love is in reality nothing but the desire to possess someone, to have their company all too yourself, to be treasured by them more than anyone else. That is selfish. There is no other way to put it. Would it not be more virtuous to deny any claim to someone’s heart? Perhaps, but few are strong enough to fight against the thrall, much less when we add passion into the mix, removing chastity, for such denial leads to suffering of the acutest kind, further urging you to give in.

…The second most common vice in love is that you are liable to martyr yourself in the name of it. Love offers an excuse for pain. Love supposedly renders pain more easily endurable. It cloaks injustice in a soft robe and makes it palatable, think only of the institution of marriage we so hotly debated with Bahorel. How many husbands beat their wives? How many wives then remain right by a brute’s side because to love is to be dutiful, to accept it? Or else, how many wives return after some time to their assigned monsters in the name of preserving love’s sanctity? ‘Love is patient, love is kind’, we are taught, and so we bear it. Is that noble? Is it virtuous? Some are taught to suffer against reason, because through love, as I have said, our claim to reason is broken. I could enumerate further, Enjolras, but suffice it to say that while I do believe Wollstonecraft to have gotten it right when she tells us it would be in our best interests to deny passionate love in favor of reason, Courfeyrac had me rightly pinned as the hedonist, and the unfortunate fact remains that to experience love is incomparable to the experience of reason, at the very least for a time. It is too sweet, too tantalizing – though that must be its aim. If it could not bait and beguile us with softness and pleasure, few would be caught in its maelstrom. It must appear as a temptation if it is to successfully drive humanity to its ruin.”

“I disagree,” Enjolras says, eyes considering. He is frowning. “I believe two people to be fully capable of offering mutual support and affection to one another without falling prey to the selfish impulses you have described. You have rather a despondent outlook on human capacity for goodness, if you will permit me to say it.”

“As long as their interests align, perhaps,” Grantaire concedes. “But put a conflict between two lovers, it will start to erode the bond. Please do not take that to mean a trivial one, I beg, those are easily withstood and break only the weakest of bonds – but let us consider a matter of life and death. Suppose one of the two is ready to make a sacrifice. How do you imagine the second would find it in their hearts to allow the first to go through with it? In the end, that boils down to two paths. Either the second thwarts the first, and soon the first will grow to despise the second for having been foiled, or the second takes the place of the first, thus leaving the first to mourn the second, alone. Neither option appeals to the heart.”

“I take your meaning, Grantaire, but I do not think reason and love to be entirely incompatible. It is a challenge, I concede, but not one which cannot be mastered. A bond may also be consolidated by trials.”

“That should take more strength than I am able to muster.”

“You judge yourself so harshly?” Enjolras asks. “I wonder--”

“Dear friends, you may not mind this dreadfully morose rhetoric, but I certainly have had my fill of it. Are we not all agreed that in the end _amor omnia vincit_ , as a great tyrant once made clear to the pope? No one doubts what you have said Grantaire; that many downfalls love has spelt. And no one can argue against you Enjolras. That reason would not aid in alleviating some of love’s more selfish impulses, if employed correctly, has been accepted by all those present. What more need we say on the matter?”

Grantaire could say much more.

But he supposes now is indeed not the time for it.

+

**October 1825**

The knock comes as something of a surprise. Grantaire is still in the midst of washing his hair and face, startled into splashing his trousers with suds and water. At least it is not wine. Only a second ago he had beheld himself and admitted that a cut was in order, perhaps a shave too. His hair has quite overtaken his face in recent weeks. Allow some time to pass still and you will find Grantaire: bear and fool both. That will not do. As it is the knock arrives just in time to postpone further deliberation on the matter of grooming. He shakes his hair out, pulls a shirt over his head hastily, and goes to receive his visitor.

“Monsieur,” Grantaire finishes fastening the cuffs of his sleeves after he has opened the door to Enjolras, “You are quite early. I had not expected you until seven.”

It is a wonder he manages to speak at all. Enjolras wears the red waistcoat again – the one he says was purchased on Courfeyrac’s orders – along with a cap he must have purchased without consulting Courfeyrac. His posture is commanding despite his restless state. It is written into his eyes, this restlessness, and it confounds Grantaire. He might even call it nerves, only he is rather certain such sentiments are incompatible with Enjolras’ nature.

“Seven has come and gone,” Enjolras raises an eyebrow, once more collected, all traces of nerves dissipated. Grantaire pauses, tying his still wet hair back as best as he is able, given that he is being watched so carefully. The weight of Enjolras’ gaze makes of him an incompetent man, prone to fumbling whatever his hands may have hitherto been holding. It would be vexing, if it would draw Enjolras’ suspicion, but as the man says nothing Grantaire allows himself the illusion that the man does not consider his habitual clumsiness stranger than his other habits.

“It is nearer to eight, come to that. I am afraid I was kept at the faculty a little longer than anticipated, I meant to be here some time ago.”

“In that case you are late. Fret not! I would not have been ready for you anyway. What kept you?”

“A professor of mine provoked me into rather heated a disagreement concerning the events of April,” Enjolras sighs. “A fellow student blasphemed, it sparked interest…the discussion devolved, suffice it to say.”

“By which you mean your professor would not condemn the decree as unconstitutional despite your persuasive clamoring?”

Enjolras looks displeased to be so transparent to Grantaire’s eye. “Perhaps,” he grumbles. “Have you anything to drink?”

“As it happens I do have water, I felt inspired some hours ago to seek out a well, for reasons of cleanliness and as I knew you had announced your intentions to visit.”

“Thank you. I will take a cup, though I would not say no to a cup of wine, tonight, if you have any,” Enjolras confesses, charitably allowing the insinuation to linger that there could be a moment in time at which Grantaire would not have wine stocked in bottles. “It has been a dreadfully long day.”

“You are well aware that in such a case you could have easily found your way home and given way to much needed rest? I do enjoy your visits greatly but if you would rather sleep I would not begrudge-”

“Certainly, but I wished to see you. It has been some time since the last time. We have both been busy. I trust your encounter with Gros went well?”

Grantaire rummages through his cabinet both so he may delay his answer a while longer and produce an acceptable cup of wine. There is some wine left of a bottle he opened days ago – and it is not red wine, he cannot offer Enjolras that, it would hardly be fit for the meanest of drunks. Ah! Further back, direly needing to be dusted, is the fine one his father sent over, the one Grantaire swore he would not drink by himself with the intent of oblivion on his mind. He had quite forgotten about it, but it will serve well now.

A cleaning rag serves to make the bottle somewhat presentable. He shows it to Enjolras, who squints by the waning light in his room to take in the label.

“That means nothing to me,” he shrugs. “But to be sure, I have full faith in your expertise, so I will try it.”

He is only glad Enjolras seems to have forgotten about Gros entirely. No need yet to relive the disaster of their clash today.

“You flatter me.”

“On occasion,” Enjolras nods.

Grantaire has a seat once he has poured them both the desired cups. Enjolras lifts his own, the gesture grand in its sheer understatement. So simple a motion and yet so captivating to watch! Once more Grantaire’s fingers itch in the general direction of his sketching paper. The second impulse, the one to reach out and caress where the corner of Enjolras’ mouth twitches – not a smile but undoubtedly a product of faint amusement – is more familiar to him and thus more easily repressed. He would not dare.

“Do you have any games?”

This, more than anything else tonight, gives Grantaire pause.

“Enjolras are you quite alright?”

“Do you know I am truly tempted to tell you that so long as the monarchy persists none of us are _quite alright,_ just to try my hand at being contrary like you make a habit of being when I inquire after your well-being? I am well as can be.”

“You come here, to my humble abode, seeking philosophical debates. We do not usually play games not of the rhetorical kind, we two.”

“Indeed we do not, but I did tell you I just came from a debate. Allow me perhaps some respite before I once more engage?” Enjolras rolls his shoulders, as though attempting to relax through sheer force of will. Such a thing may be possible, Grantaire concedes, for those of stronger will than him. Perhaps that is how Enjolras avoids feeling overwhelmed by the daunting power of his opponent, that intangible burden of inequality. How else might one explain his continued perseverance in light of Paris’ refusal to be changed? 

“Joly has currently appropriated my chess set, so I cannot offer you that. He means to teach Musichetta strategy by it. I have a deck, however, if you do not mind a few of the cards tainted by wine. I promise it will not serve as an advantage – I have not memorized which ones, only that my queen of hearts has a spill right across her throat so it rather looks as though she was guillotined, sure to be appreciated by the right playing partners and therefore not necessitating replacement.”

“That will do.”

Grantaire is not entirely sure whether Enjolras is commending the artistic license unintentionally taken or accepting his offer of cards.

“As we are but two players we find ourselves sorely limited, or I would suggest we play _Napoléon_ , simply so that you may depose him afterwards.”

“Another example of your famous wit, I take it?”

“Do you claim not to be amused?” Grantaire wonders, finishing off his cup. It truly is a good wine. He was right to share it with Enjolras, even if – by virtue of scarcely having tasted wine – he will not appreciate the contrast to the vinegar masquerading as wine Grantaire has had to content himself with frequently.

“A little,” Enjolras admits, undoing Grantaire’s mind by the simple act of licking his lips to catch a stray droplet of wine. The very cheek of the man to look so alluring with so little intent, Grantaire thinks.

“What will it be, monsieur? Briscola or Mariage?”

“The latter,” Enjolras decides promptly.

“By which reasoning? I admit to some curiosity, you were quite swiftly decided.”

“I do not know the first you mentioned. The second sounded French.”

“Ah! How very patriotic and pragmatic both of you. As it is, you are wrong. The game is from Leipzig. But if you wish to pay tribute to Patria and her marvelous inventions tonight we may try our hand at Brusquembille, though I do not make a habit of playing it and will thus undoubtedly fare very poorly.”

“I am not at all convinced they are all different games. Are you having me on?”

“The thought had not even crossed my mind,” Grantaire promises with little sincerity. It is rather amusing a pastime, but a dangerous path to tread, for Enjolras is wholly capable of incinerating a man in response. He begins to shuffle the deck, looking down at the cards to hide a laugh when it becomes apparent that Enjolras is once more engaged in deep reflection – he gives it away easily by the furrow upon his forehead. The skin between his eyebrows pinches together delightfully, resulting in a vertical line of astounding depth. Courfeyrac often remarks upon it when he feels the need to tease Enjolras.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire hums by way of answer, keeping himself occupied with the task of dealing their hands. He observes Enjolras’ corporal hands for a while. The one is wrapped loosely around his cup; the other is drumming on the table without making a sound.

“Do you recall when you came for dinner some weeks ago?”

“My memory is not so shabby, despite my attempts to poke it full of holes by way of too much wine. Of course I remember, though that is likely not all you wish for me to recall.”

“Courfeyrac read me some passages from Wollstonecraft’s Vindication, after you left us. Élodie had sent it, after all...”

“And did you find it to be as instructive and eye-opening as Mademoiselle his sister touted it to be?”

“Certainly the author has an astounding way with words, and her arguments are not poor at all. I was rather more troubled by some other parts, for which the fault lies not with her.”

Beneath the table, Grantaire notes that Enjolras’ knee is beginning to bounce. There he has his corroboration then. Enjolras is indeed nervous, but Grantaire cannot possibly say why he might be. In recent weeks he rather thought Enjolras had dropped any initial reservations pertaining their discussions.

“And is this trouble the philosophical quandary you have come to debate tonight?”

“I do not merely come here to debate you, Grantaire. Your company is something I cherish, do not dare to assume otherwise.”

Grantaire clears his throat. He nods; an empty gesture to placate Enjolras. 

“The lady dedicated an entire chapter to discrediting Rousseau.”

Thus the manner of Enjolras’ trouble is easily revealed.

“I see why that would trouble you. Was he discredited in your eyes? I pity any man who should lose your good opinion.”

Enjolras frowns deeper, has another sip. One could suppose he were fortifying himself.

“To some extent, unfortunately yes. There was a great deal of talk regarding the biological destinies of the sexes. I had not read those works of his, but Courfeyrac assured me Rousseau was indeed convinced that men should be permitted to treat women how they like, given that women relied on them more than they relied on women. ‘ _I had supposed you knew as much and decided resolutely to prescribe only to his opinions on government. That is what I have had to do to continue to quote him with good conscience,_ ’ he said to me.”

Grantaire scowls to hear it. “I have told you often I think him a scoundrel.”

“That notwithstanding, I do wish to hear your opinion on this theory.”

“It is horseshit. There you have my opinion.”

And quite succinctly given as well, if he dare say as much.

“Yes, well…Grantaire, attempt, for a moment, to convince yourself that you share his view. I believe you may manage it, you are quite adept at playing advocate – in a way Rousseau’s opinion is accepted by most today, even if they do not know they have him to thank for putting it in words most recently; certainly the sentiment predates him. Suppose you believe that men and women are so different that they have different _destinies_ , as it were, based on their biology.”

“Very well, I have convinced myself I am an awful man full of malicious insecurity and an overblown sense of my own importance, both of which I must take out on the women in my life – did you know Rousseau never offered his own wife a chance for education, by and by? What now, Enjolras?”

It manages a short laugh from Enjolras, who quickly schools his face into a chastising expression. The whole effect is rather endearing.

“Well…what if there was some discrepancy?”

“Pardon?”

“A discrepancy, between one’s anatomy and one’s being, one’s gender, better phrased. How does his theory account for that?”

“Ah, now I take your meaning. I suppose it does not account for that at all, but why would you expect it to? Such discrepancies there are many in our world and these people will continue to _be,_ whether or not they align with one man’s philosophy or even the philosophy of whole nations. I am afraid I do not understand why you would go through the effort of disproving his notions when you could simply scoff at the ignorance of the man and throw the whole _schmutz_ out of the window, as I have done.”

Enjolras leans back in his chair, tilting his head to look at Grantaire. He cannot decipher what those eyes are telling him right now. A million different feelings seem to pass through him all at once, too fleeting for Grantaire to catch.

“You do not understand why I should seek to beat his idea in debate instead of dismissing it out of hand?”

“Ah,” Grantaire laughs, “Very well, perhaps I understand the reasoning entirely. It is very in keeping with the behavior you have demonstrated up until now, and fairer than Rousseau deserves, if you ask me.”

“I am glad you seem to think so. Might I have your opinion on it?”

“On what precisely would you have my opinion – Rousseau? I am glad to reiterate, but I thought I made myself quite clear.”

“According to Rousseau, a man’s biology and anatomy define him as such. A man is thus set on a particular path which Rousseau argues cannot be changed. Wollstonecraft argues differently. Where do you fall?”

“If man were made man only by the length of a flesh pipe stuck haphazardly between his legs, I should be very much concerned for the state of our species – not that I am ever unconcerned, nor are you, I know, but I believe that should add a great deal of concern onto my conscience, do you see? As you have said, there are men that differ in this regard, all kinds of men who do not fit into Rousseau’s biological description of what Man ought to be. Still, are they not men? Can one philosopher know definitely and thus set the criteria for such things? Wollstonecraft seems to have it right when she argues that the mind’s own reasoning and educational stimuli are the more important factors, regarding the development of the sexes. It affords the individual some autonomy which Rousseau seems to deny.”

“You do not find that to be odd?”

Enjolras empties his cup, continues tapping the table.

“It has once more grown to be considered as odd by most in our times, I concede. But look past the veil of Christianity Europe cloaks herself with and you will find that such men or women as you have mentioned have always existed. Take Greece – you know how I favor the Greeks, pray you have not yet grown weary of my lengthy accounts – and the story of Caeneus of Thessaly as described in the Metamorphoses. Travel further down the African continent and you will find the Igbo, the Dagaaba and many more! They once based their notions of gender entirely on the energy each individual exhibited, with no cares at all to what their anatomy might suggest! I was told some years ago the Mbuti people did not even assign designations to their younglings until their change was upon them, once, years ago. Of course, now that the Faith has so cruelly wrapped her spindly fingers around Africa’s metaphorical throat and bled her dry, has choked off the air she needs to flourish, it is not quite the same. Everywhere Europe has extended herself in the name of Enlightenment and Civilization she has only brought darkness, has attempted to close minds off to all which is not consolidated in long-dated scripture. But you need only look into the right cafés in Paris this very day to realize how fundamentally wrong Rousseau and his whole lot are, when – Oh, what is the matter?”

“Must something be the matter?”

“It is just that you are smiling,” Grantaire gestures towards Enjolras.

“So I am. Is there a problem?”

The problem is that Grantaire is not prepared to see happiness so stark on Enjolras’ face. It is entirely overwhelming. He rather feels his own air supply grow scarce.

“You never smile when I lose myself in my words. I believed you found it bothersome, it hardly makes for structured debate.”

“Perhaps you simply did not notice.”

“Enjolras, I am incapable of ignoring you.”

“That, it would seem, is something we share.”

Grantaire huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

“Another cup for you?” Enjolras gestures towards the bottle. “I think I could certainly be persuaded to a second.”

+

**November 1825**

“Grantaire!” A voice calls out to him as he makes his way down towards Gros’ studio. Already his hand is cramping from the weight of his portfolio, the cold bites into his fingers. He ought to have worn gloves.

The source of the voice is unexpected. Coming towards him is a large, broad-shouldered man that his current knowledge puts closer to Wrocław than Paris. His cap dangerously close to being blown off by the wind, he takes it in hand. It is by the shade of his fine hair that Grantaire confidently recognizes him at last. Obscured by the beard as his face is at the moment, the man seems a stranger, yet his name cannot be denied.

“Feuilly,” Grantaire smiles, maneuvering his utensils so as to offer a hand, but Feuilly instead surges forward to embrace him. “I had thought you had found work outside of France.”

“For a time,” Feuilly admits. His hands are unbearably cold. Grantaire wonders how long the man has been wandering around. “But with winter the need for laborers dwindled and soon I was out of work again. They have little use for fans up north, unfortunately. I returned here. It was a long journey. I found short term employment in seven German cities – do you know I speak their language now? We shall have to discuss it soon. Right now I see you are busy, though. Are you still to be found where you always linger?”

“To be certain,” Grantaire nods. “And I shall be happy to hear everything you have to say. Unfortunately I do not think Gros will release me before it has grown dark out. Where might I find you?”

Feuilly smiles, but it is an uncertain smile that Grantaire often sees on beggars blessed by clergymen. “I do not know yet.”

Ah. Grantaire knows better than to forge ahead down that particular road.

“In the meantime though, I imagine there to be someone else who would rejoice to see you returned to our ranks.”

“His old rooms are rented to someone else now,” Feuilly sighs, “And I do not see the sense in freezing my feet off in front of a lecture hall he never patronizes.”

Of course Feuilly already tried. Grantaire ought to have known.

“He lives in across the street from the Café Bellaire now, do you remember the way? It is a grand old building painted green, you cannot miss it. His lodgings are on the third floor. I do believe he will indeed be very happy to see you.”

Grantaire does not add that Feuilly should spend the evening in front of Bahorel’s fireplace, lest he lose his toes and more valuable extremities to the cold. It is a difficult feat to hold his tongue. Feuilly departs again with a smile that looks a little steadier. When he does close the door behind him, Gros is standing in front of his latest project, his arms crossed, judging it.

“I enjoy the colors you have picked out for the piece. The motif you intend to incorporate leaves something to be desired, however.”

“There is always more to be desired,” Grantaire is careful not to sound overly flippant. Gros turns his heavy eyes on him, the purple shadows beneath them rather deep today. His mouth opens around a harsh sound of disapproval, before he gestures with one paint-stained hand to his piece.

“See that you manage your task, else I shall have to permanently lump you in with the Romantics. I should hate to make you return to painting still life all day. Do not think I did not notice that you have already pilfered pieces from my model fruit basket.”

Grantaire has gone through two small candles by the time someone knocks on the studio door. Gros, for his part, is lounging on his Récamière with a sketchpad, seemingly unwilling to answer. Perhaps he did not hear it? Some artists, it should be said, are actually capable of immersion. Grantaire, for the most part, is not. His mind forever wanders, even as he should be focusing on commissions.

The door opens to reveal Enjolras, clad in a heavier coat again now that the cold has snuck up on Paris once more. It has come with a vengeance this year. Once more Grantaire thinks of Feuilly’s hands, split open and reddened. If the cold will not cost him his best chance of income, it will certainly not help either.

“Good evening, Enjolras,” Grantaire greets, hoping his expression conveys his confusion appropriately. “Did I forget we had an agreement to meet?”

“This is rather spontaneous in nature, I confess. I was on a walk and passed by here. Now I see I have disturbed you in your work. Apologies…”

“Nonsense!” Gros rises, all thoughts of immersion swiftly forgotten, drawn out of his tunnel by the vision of Enjolras. Grantaire can hardly blame him. “Now this, Grantaire, is a proper model for your work! Why have you not brought him here to pose before? Oh, how many Gods could be made after his image! See how angelic he looks, how regal his cheekbones!”

“Monsieur, am I perhaps imagining the Romantic note which has snuck into your words of admiration there? Tsk, indeed.”

Grantaire turns to Enjolras: “Would you care to be accompanied on your walk home? I do believe I am done for today. My fingers are rather stiff and useless.”

Enjolras has a parting nod to offer Gros. Outside, he offers Grantaire his arm. It is something of a surprise. “Allowing your hands to grow cold will only hurt them more.”

It stands to reason, for Grantaire’s fingers are indeed warm, tucked between Enjolras’ arm and his coat. After a few paces of quiet, Enjolras speaks once more. “I would not mind posing for a portrait, you know? If you have need of a model, that is.”

The thought alone is unbearable. “I would only do you discredit. My meagre talents are not sufficient to produce a satisfactory likeness. What have you come to discuss?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras confesses. “It is as I said, that I merely wished to enjoy your company today. Must I have a topic prepared each time we engage?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire assures him. “Might I point out though that this is highly irregular for you?”

“You may point it out while I choose to ignore it. What would you like to talk about?”

A million things come to mind which he dismisses out of hand. He settles on the first thing to come to mind which does not seem likely to draw Enjolras’ disapproval.

“I found a very pretty offering at my door late last night, the fourth of its kind. Another Edelweiss, if you must know. This one is my favorite thus far, the leaves are dotted with small specks of blue, almost as though added by design.”

“I am glad to hear you enjoyed them,” Enjolras smiles, “I thought I might write something to accompany them, only I never seem to know what to put to paper.”

“Pardon?”

Enjolras pauses their walk after Grantaire is frozen in place by his words. His arm slides out of the crease of Enjolras’ elbow, and he takes Grantaire’s hands in his gloved ones, rubbing softly. It does the job of warming Grantaire up, but being an overachiever in all aspects of life, Enjolras induces heat over the whole of Grantaire’s body in such a manner.

“You are confused – might I inquire as to why?”

“Well, for a start I was not aware the flowers were of your doing and now feel an ass for never having thanked you for them. You must have thought me ungrateful!”

“Who did you think them to be from?”

“To be frank, I thought they might be from my landlady’s youngest daughter – she is rather fond of me.”

Now Enjolras frowns down at him, his hands stop moving though he does not withdraw them.

“She is also eight, come off it. Do not look so disapproving. I made a jest in poor taste, that is all. It can hardly be the worst you have heard from me.”

“They were from me,” Enjolras reassures him as they continue walking. “You spoke so often of your fondness for flowers that I thought you would enjoy receiving them.”

“Now that I know they are from you I appreciate them all the more, to be sure.”

Though why Enjolras would send him flowers remains a mystery. Perhaps that is what good men do when their acquaintances mention enjoying something. He would not know, though he makes sure not to mention the newest flower to Bahorel or Feuilly with a single breath when he walks into the Café Bellaire.

+

Today it is Enjolras who opens the door to him, appearing in shirtsleeves, his waistcoat still open, his cravat – a rather bland black and grey pattern, but a lovely silk fabric, by Grantaire’s estimation – hanging about his shoulders. He looks rather hectic. Truthfully, Grantaire had expected Courfeyrac, since he had, as usual, been the one to extend the invitation when Grantaire ran into him at the market stalls. Courfeyrac had been buying wine, though not in the same quantities as Grantaire, and certainly of higher quality. Grantaire is hoping to be allowed to sample some of it, tonight, it had looked thoroughly tempting. Though judging by the state of the man in front of him, more temptations are to be presented tonight. First among them: the temptation to make an utter fool of himself if he does not soon greet his host, having temporarily been rendered incapable of speech.

“This marks the first time that you show up here early,” Enjolras raises an eyebrow, mercifully saving Grantaire from having to be the first to engage. “You will have to forgive my current state.”

“Readily forgiven, be easy.”

Enjolras pauses, regards him for a while. Grantaire does not dare move under so intent a gaze, fearing he has been caught admiring what is before him. At last, his hands gently grasp Grantaire’s shoulders, urging him forward. As though in a haze, Grantaire complies. Saccharine warmth is dropped onto his cheeks – one after the other receives such treatment. Only when the man draws away with a hesitant smile does Grantaire realize he has been kissed. It is a gesture often exchanged between friends; God knows Bahorel has drawn him into many an embrace of such a kind. To be sure, Joly has on occasion gone further to deliver a kiss of peace unto his lips after drunken escapades led to hurtful words. It should come as no surprise that, as they have known each other for well over half a year now, Enjolras might greet him thus. Still, surprise abounds.

“It is good to see you, nonetheless. Come in, if you would. You will have to excuse me for a while longer - I only answered the door as I did not wish to keep you waiting where there is no fireplace, your face is so very cold already. Please do help yourself to a cup of mulled wine, Courfeyrac left some on the stove, I do believe it to still be hot.”

“Speaking of our Chevalier -- I thought he meant to entertain? Is he not in house?”

 _Have I been tricked_ , Grantaire means to ask.

“His lover was waylaid on the road. Courfeyrac has gone to accompany him here, gallant as he is. I expect both shortly,” Enjolras calls from the bedroom. How, Grantaire wonders, do they manage living together in an apartment which boasts only one bed? Do Enjolras and Courfeyrac share it? Does Enjolras pass his nights on the Récamière? Surely, if Courfeyrac has company, he does; but on other nights? Such things are best not thought about.

Enjolras appears with a buttoned waistcoat and perfectly neat hair, but the state of his cravat is abhorrent. He tracks the path of Grantaire’s eyes, blushing. That is equally rare, to see Enjolras embarrassed, but it would appear that he is.

“Courfeyrac usually helps me with it. I am afraid it is something I am not skilled in.”

“That will not do,” Grantaire shakes his head. “You look as though you are wearing a fichu!”

“Have at it then, if you would,” Enjolras gestures towards his neck, tilting his head invitingly to allow Grantaire access. Instantly, Grantaire wishes he were capable of swallowing his own words. To be sure he has a talent for entangling himself in such situations, does he not? As he cannot but follow through, he braces himself best as he may and steps closer to the man, hit instantly by a new scent. The revelation that Enjolras applied cologne comes as something of a surprise. Grantaire does not comment on it. Surely the man would feel Grantaire were mocking him? Instead he concentrates on fashioning the most elegant knot he has ever made, close to what Enjolras wears most days, careful not to allow his fingers to stray even an inch. He was right about the fabric. The silk is cool beneath his fingers, a luxurious sensation, so blatantly indulgent that it appears contrary to Enjolras’ very person. Perhaps it is an item borrowed from Courfeyrac. 

“You really ought to practice more, instead of leaving it to Courfeyrac,” Grantaire muses after he steps back. Upon looking upwards to judge Enjolras’ reaction it becomes evident that he has not enforced sufficient space. They stand much too close. 

“Indeed I should,” Enjolras agrees, flexing his right hand and regarding it for a moment, before he glances meaningfully at Grantaire’s cravat. What is it about this look that makes Grantaire suddenly think he was too strict with his knot today? It feels unbearably tight now. His body is engulfed in flames, hellfire licks at his feet to turn him to ash at last. Such a feat, in the middle of November!

“Have at it,” Grantaire manages to say. Still, when Enjolras takes a step closer, initially he steps back, thus finding himself leaning against the edge of the table. His reclining legs block Enjolras’ approach. He spreads them, aware how lewd this gesture may appear and face burning for it. Alas, he must rely on the hope that Enjolras will put the warmth in his cheeks down to previously imbibed drink rather than improper thoughts. The man steps between them without question, towering over Grantaire. His fingers are nimble; the act of removing the fabric is easily mastered, though he feels Enjolras’ fingers lingering on his skin for much longer than many would consider proper.

“There are some curls in the way,” Enjolras explains the delay of the act, “May I?”

Grantaire nods. To speak now would only produce a scratchy cough – his throat is much too dry. Enjolras’ hand is careful to tuck Grantaire’s strands behind his ear. The scratch of his nails is a seductive contrast to the caress of his palm. Even after his hand has departed Grantaire feels their phantom touch. He suspects he will go to bed with the memory of it tonight. If Courfeyrac were to happen upon them now…

“This is where I reliably falter,” Enjolras intimates, his voice low and soft. At the moment his hands linger softly against Grantaire’s chest, each holding the end of a crossed strip of cravat. “I do not quite know how to go about what comes next, that is to say, what I wish to come next, if you take my meaning.”

“In the end it comes down to what a man favors, I say,” Grantaire explains. “Usually I prefer to keep the knot flat, allowing for the pattern to cover my rather plain shirt. You will not have the same priorities, given that your cravat pattern is rather subdued. May I -- I will show you how, allow me…”

“I would very much like for you to show me, Grantaire.”

God, if Enjolras but knew –

He keeps his eyes trained on the perfectly smooth, unblemished skin of Enjolras throat, what little he can see of it. This part of him is delicate, not so strikingly structured as his face but worthy of admiration just the same. Grantaire observes his jaw, where new growth of fine hair tickles his neck, but then he makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. They are clear as foreign oceans untouched by mankind and her industry, their frozen blue paradoxically sets Grantaire ablaze. Or perhaps they freeze him in place, as is wont to happen when engulfed in ice, for Grantaire finds he cannot look away. That must be it – to be sure Grantaire has been burning for much longer than this moment. Unfortunately metaphorical ice does little to soothe the fire around him. It is a miracle he manages to breathe at all. Though given their proximity, perhaps it is Enjolras breathing for the both of them, selfless as ever. It certainly feels as though each breath is a shared effort.

With shaking fingers, Grantaire guides Enjolras through the final steps.

“There,” Grantaire smiles. “Easy enough, when deconstructed. With time the movement will appear practiced in your hands as well.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras voice is pitched low, though there seems to be a remainder of confusion in his eyes. Grantaire recalls first being taught how to manage the feat. It had taken years to master. In perfect harmony with the opening of the door, announcing Courfeyrac’s presence, Enjolras steps back from him. He cocks his head at Grantaire, who finds himself rather appreciative of the table’s sturdiness. “Perhaps you would enjoy some mulled wine now?”

Grantaire can only nod as Enjolras smiles, departing to procure a cup for him. 

+

He offers Enjolras his arm as they depart from the house. Enjolras draws his coat tight around his shoulders, smiling as he accepts the offer.

“Was that the first time you met Courfeyrac’s new beau?”

“Not a beau, but another passing fancy, if you ask me. I do not think he shall dine with us again. Pity though, I rather thought his few words on politics sounded promising.”

“Bahorel tells me you wish to organize meetings of a kind, perhaps he may find his way there. Is Courfeyrac not known for remaining in the good graces of most paramours of days gone by?”

“My, Grantaire, that almost sounds optimistic,” Enjolras whispers, staring across the street, miserably hiding the amused twitch of his lips, straining to be allowed to grin.

“One adapts to the company one keeps, no?”

“Hardly,” Enjolras snorts. “If that were so I would surely take after my father. The thought repulses me.”

Grantaire shudders. “That is an excellent point you have made. In any case, Courfeyrac’s beau seemed rather taken with you, I do not think you will be able to fend him off when their liaison ends.”

“He did compliment me rather a lot, did he not?” Enjolras shakes his head. “I did not hear him clearly - did he truly suggest I ought to get my portrait done?”

“Ah yes, he suggested I draw you,” Grantaire nods.

“Perhaps you should,” Enjolras muses. “That is two people now who have demanded it.”

“I do not think at all that I should.”

“You draw many people,” Enjolras prompts, “Surely my likeness cannot be harder to capture than anyone else?”

“You cannot be put to paper,” Grantaire sighs, attempting to find the words, “There is something really quite alive in you that is impossible to describe, much less capture. I would merely pin down a static moment, a glimpse of nothing! To be sure, people would look at your portrait and proclaim you to be a most handsome young man, but they would judge you only on what nature has made of you - that takes too much away from who you are. To truly comprehend the extent of you one has to witness your person.”

“I believe you could manage it well,” Enjolras finally responds. “It seems to me sometimes, Grantaire, that you know me better than anyone else.”

**December 1825**

It is Courfeyrac who opens the door to Grantaire’s knock, bringing him up short.

“I had thought you already en route home.”

“Indeed I ought to have been,” Courfeyrac confirms, untying his cravat as if to settle down for the evening, “Only I received word just an hour ago that yesterday evening my darling sister got it into her head to sneak off in a carriage and spend Christmas in Paris with me. My parents were in a state of upheaval, naturally, but she is set to arrive within the hour. Enjolras is waiting for her once his last lecture of the day lets out. But you...you had plans to visit your family, did you not? If they too have fallen through you are very welcome to dinner with us.”

“I have a horse waiting for me,” Grantaire refuses the offer of entry politely. “I meant only to drop off a present for Enjolras, though you have succeeded in making me feel a heartless miser that I did not think to get you anything.”

Courfeyrac’s posture changes, his eyes turn beguiling as he leans against the door frame. It is good Grantaire knows the man to be kidding, for the crooked finger that tugs him closer by his own hastily tied cravat would otherwise be rather disconcerting. “I am sure there are some gifts much appreciated which you may bestow rather spontaneously.”

It is closer to a purr than anything else when Courfeyrac plays the seductress. Unfortunately for the man it makes Grantaire laugh. He supposes if the man put a tad more effort into it he would have found himself genuinely intrigued. As it stands, not so much.

“See that I do not circumcise you with my teeth, temptress,” Grantaire snaps the aforementioned surgical equipment at Courfeyrac, whose hand swiftly desists. “Give this to Monsieur, do be so kind.”

“Dare I ask…?”

“I would much prefer it if you did not, only I fear not satisfying your curiosity will mean you shall tease the poor man for it relentlessly.”

“I would never tease Enjolras more than he can take.”

“You are mistaken, the poor man is I.”

“Ah, yes, that stands to reason.”

“It is a book, that is all.”

“And which tome have you procured for the dear lad?”

“I shall not spoil that much for you,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “In any case I must beg off, the horse has not all day, there are places it must go. Happy Christmas, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac extends a genial hand. If just to make the man roll his eyes, Grantaire brings it to his mouth and kisses it. There is an impasse occasionally, with Courfeyrac. Rather often Grantaire gets the sense that were Enjolras not in the picture, he would get on very well with the man. But as Enjolras does exists, Courfeyrac treats him with habitual suspicion. It diminishes their friendship. Then, on different occasions, Grantaire could almost suspect the man of conspiring to afford Enjolras and him time alone. It was Courfeyrac, after all, who made the initial introductions. His behavior is contradictory and it produces anxiety in Grantaire’s comportment around him.

+

Carlotta only grows lovelier with each passing day. He has not seen her since March, but he is certain of it. At twelve she seems still a child to Grantaire, yet he knows that France herself has had consorts of a similar age. Thoughts of monarchs are quickly dispelled when she jumps into his arms, rumpling what is undoubtedly a new dress. It is a soft green to compliment her brown eyes. Her hair has been pinned up in an elaborate style Grantaire knows she did not make herself. It would almost be enough to fool a stranger into thinking her mature.

“Dear brother, we did not expect you until the morning! We thought you would employ a carriage.”

“Ah, I thought: an additional evening with the loveliest girl in all of France? How can I possibly refuse?”

“I am a woman, now,” Carlotta protests, straightening her shoulders and looking down at him, haughty. She wears the look as she would a mask. Soon she is fit to burst into giggles, he thinks.

“My mistake,” Grantaire inclines his head, feigning contriteness, “Then I suppose I had better take the presents to another girl.”

“Presents?”

“Oh, you are a spoiled one, are you not?”

“I enjoy being spoiled,” Carlotta insists. “Father has taken to it recently. I have many fine new dresses. Ricardo brought this one from London! The fabrics are from China!”

“Has our brother arrived already then?”

“A week ago,” Carlotta nods, “He arrived with company. Lord Tilmesbury, he introduced himself. I believe you will meet him at dinner.”

“It is a while yet until dinner. I do not suppose a woman still allows her brother to push her on the swings?”

Carlotta puts her hands on her hips, rolls her eyes.

“Only stupid women do not allow that. You are very good at pushing the swing.”

Grantaire sets her down. “Lead the way then, mademoiselle.”

Carlotta seems to feel an urge to be allowed to talk freely, because at the first question Grantaire asks her, a waterfall seems to burst forth and she scarcely pauses for breath. Perhaps he should write her letters more often, now that she has reached an age where her family expects her to become entirely malleable and docile. Thoughts of Courfeyrac and his sister come to him. He supposes he will ask the man how he goes about engaging his sister in literary discussions. Grantaire dearly wishes to foster a similar education in Carlotta. She is a clever girl, Grantaire thinks. But he cannot help but think that she withers, here in the country. Would she be happier in Paris? Perhaps. Would her life be more secure? Unlikely. It is as they have often discussed in their grungy cafés, among too many bottles. Women are not offered very many chances. Ought he be ashamed that he only feels it keenly now that he considers the path a beloved sister might take?

He imagines if he were to ask Enjolras this, the man would suggest he ought to feel the same sympathy for any woman not related to him. Inherently their plight is the same everywhere. And privately, Grantaire does agree. But that is where he ends – he can come up with no solution, can find no way to bring about change. To introduce laws regulating such things? Ha! You would sooner succeed in bringing about proof of God. They are too entrenched in an ancient system, every dynamic between man and woman further strengthens the hierarchy in place.

“…The stable boy told me I had a talent for garnering the affection of the animals. When I asked the farmer’s wife next door – do you remember her, Old Marguerite? – She agreed. I wanted to help her feed the chickens. At first she said it wouldn’t be proper, but I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone but you and then she let me help her. I really like Old Marguerite. Two weeks ago I showed her how to spell her name and she showed me how to milk a cow, but she wouldn’t let me try it out of fear the cow might kick me. I’ve never seen a cow kick someone before, they seem so gentle, do they not?”

“Certainly,” Grantaire leans against the tree and watches his sister swing, kicking her feet high into the air and laughing. If time could but be frozen thus. If only she did not have to grow into what is expected of her.

The sun has almost set when a harried looking woman runs into the part of the garden where they are hidden away.

“Mistress Carlotta, really, you cannot run away from your chaperones, whatever shall we do with you!”

“Peace, Madame, she is chaperoned,” Grantaire protests as he sees the smile die on Carlotta’s face. Her little hands clutch the ropes of the swing, her eyes stare at the ground morosely. “I have been chaperoning her.”

“And who are you? A strange man! She will be lucky if she is not ruined for good, if word of this should--”

“I am her brother, Madame, arrived from Paris.”

Color rises high on the woman’s cheeks.

“Pardon me, Monsieur, we did not expect your arrival yet, truth be told. Forgive my suspicions. I am only concerned for my charge.”

“It does you credit. Have you come to fetch us for dinner?”

Carlotta pulls on his sleeve as they walk home. As he bends down, she whispers to him: “That’s my new governess. I hate her. She’s miserable and stern and never lets me play.”

London has served Ricardo well, he notes immediately when his brother draws him into a warm embrace. His shoulders have broadened. Around his smile there are traces of a beard he shaves with some regularity. At nineteen he can truthfully be called more man than lad. Next to him stands a younger man, from whose lips proudly jut the first few signs of a beard he does not seem intent on shaving. Carlotta is placed across from him at the table by his father. A shudder runs down Grantaire’s back at the implication.

When he must leave for Paris three days later with a promise from Ricardo to pay him a visit come February, as he wishes to show it to Lord Tilmesbury, he gives earnest consideration to the thought of packing Carlotta on the horse with him and taking her away from the lewd eyes of the young English Lord. An advantageous marriage, to be sure. But it would catapult Carlotta into a foreign country, utterly at the mercy of her new husband, with no friends to surround her. Grantaire’s heart aches.

+

On the final day of the year Enjolras calls on him. “Good evening,” he smiles at a stumped Grantaire, “I do hope I am not disturbing you.”

“To be disturbed I would have had to have been engaged in work in the first place, which is not so. Do come in, or you shall bring in the cold with you before very long. I have only just been able to get a fire going.”

“That qualifies as work, does it not?” Enjolras wonders, slowly removing fine leather gloves he does not doubt are Courfeyrac’s christmas present. The accompanying coat is of fine quality too, but he has seen it on Courfeyrac on occasion, so that is likely passed down. Altogether Enjolras looks exhausted, his face pale and his eyelids drooping. It is nearing midnight and Grantaire would readily believe the man if he told him he had been up since before the crack of dawn.

“To be sure, only not the work I ought to have been doing. Inspiration eludes me - Gros is fit to combust out of sheer frustration.”

“The offer yet stands,” Enjolras informs him, “If the man is so desperate to see me painted, why not have your hands be the enabler of such a project?”

“There is hardly any use in reviving that old discussion,” Grantaire shakes his head. “One would almost believe you to be vain, with how often you allude to having yourself committed to paper.”

“Do you think it vanity that induces me to offer?”

“I think you have not an ounce of vanity in your soul,” Grantaire explains as he bustles about the kitchen. He could have cleaned up, had he known Enjolras was of a mind to come here. “To be sure it would be warranted, with a face such as yours, but it eludes you.”

“You flatter me.”

“Those who lack vanity can hardly be flattered, can they? Speak no more of it, or I shall have to reconsider -- I am merely pointing out my observations.”

“How right, apologies.” Enjolras attempts to look solemn. When Grantaire goes to move past him, however, he is waylaid by a hand on his forearm, skin on skin, tantalizingly warm and gentle. “I am curious though - is it only me you refuse to put to paper? Bahorel assures me you have sketched even him on occasion.”

“Without a doubt, Enjolras, you inspire many artistic undertakings, do not think otherwise. But consider the last thing that happened to my muse. No sooner had I captured her essence did she quit me forever, leaving only a paper smile behind. Truth be told I would rather have you than your image.”

“You believe that by drawing me you will induce my death? That may very well happen whether you paint me or not. Neither illness nor injustice discriminates in such regard, else there would not be so many portraits posthumously scribbled as the body is displayed.”

“If you are immortalized on paper that surely tempts fate…Do you disagree?”

Enjolras takes a step towards him, a charming smile tugging at his lips. “You are so filled with worry, friend. If you claim you will never achieve my true likeness anyway, would we not dupe fate? Would Atropos’ scissor not shear only air instead of my thread?”

Grantaire’s laughter dies in his throat the second Enjolras’s hand cups his cheek. Slowly, Enjolras presses a tender kiss to his lips as the bell is rung for the new year. It does not tear them apart, acting merely as a background harmony, complementing the cacophony of thoughts raging inside of him.

“Peace unto you, and a very happy new year, Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers against his lips, lingering just a second longer before righting himself. “I confess I am rather fit to collapse, so I am afraid I will be very poor company.”

He is undone, by so simple a gesture. How cruel that the man must be half-delirious from sleep deprivation to bestow a kiss of peace unto Grantaire. How cruel that he would think to do so at all, and then execute it more as a lover would than a friend!

“You ought to sleep,” Grantaire urges. “The bed is serviceable, as you well know.”

Grantaire awakens in the early hours, not by virtue of stray sun rays but because Enjolras’ boots creak on his landing. He can hardly make out the man, only a vague shape of him, hunched forward, hasty. The door closes behind him, he spares not a single glance for Grantaire, now alone in bed. As they fell asleep Grantaire thought he felt Enjolras’ fingers tracing the lines on his forehead, had thought he heard a huff of laughter when Grantaire sneezed at being so tickled.

But perhaps that was his imagination. Perhaps Grantaire imagined the entire evening.

  


+

**January 1826**

A week passes before he sees Enjolras again. If pressed, Grantaire would insist he was not avoiding him, but in truth he has taken care not to be found at home or with Gros these past days. Mostly he spent them visiting Feuilly in the worker’s barracks where he garnered a bed in a room with seven other men. Upon being offered, he bluntly refused to room with Bahorel. It is a matter of pride, Grantaire knows, but as little as he desires to be part of the faceless impoverished in Paris, he surely would deserve it more than a good man earnestly breaking his back day after day.

So he keeps Feuilly company at the workshop, sketches him while he paints his fans, exchanges stories with him about his travels across the German States.

“A friend of mine saw Geneva a few months ago,” Grantaire catches himself recounting with a smile, undoing all his efforts of avoiding thoughts concerning Enjolras.

Now Enjolras has called out to him. Grantaire closes the book he was considering. They shake hands, Grantaire feels Enjolras squeeze tightly. The man sways towards him a little, then backtracks and straightens.

“I would have called on you yesterday, but your landlady said you were not in,” Enjolras’ voice drops low. “Apologies, I would have done so sooner but you were never to be found when I had a moment to spare.”

“No trouble at all,” Grantaire at last has the presence of mind to draw his hand out of Enjolras’ grasp.

“Enjolras!” A fine looking fellow demands his attention, strolling down the line with a stack of books under his arm. His eyes are deep-set, the curve of his mouth lending him a haughty appearance. Grantaire hesitates to accuse any man of snobbery but it is written onto his face quite clearly. “Are you quite ready?”

“Ah,” Enjolras nods, gesturing towards Grantaire. “Grantaire, this is Monsieur de Sagard, we have been assigned a trial case together. Monsieur, this is Grantaire, a dear friend of mine I had the good fortune to chance upon.”

“A pleasure,” Monsieur de Sagard drawls, voice disinterested but polite enough to extend a hand towards Grantaire. “Shall we get on, Enjolras? I would rather we did not waste what little daylight there is left.”

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras nods, fervent, then turns back to Grantaire. “Might I call on you later tonight? I found rather a fascinating insight I wished to discuss with you.”

Grantaire vacillates. There is nothing he has planned tonight, but there is a standing invitation from Joly to have a look at how Musichetta redecorated his rooms, so he thinks he may take him up on that offer tonight, à propos of nothing. The thought of keeping close company with Enjolras after he has tasted his lips so briefly is still painful, requiring additional time to nurse the unintentional injury and gather strength to repress what continues to refuse repression.

Enjolras seems disappointed. “Another time then,” he says, however, appearing once more marvelously composed.

+

Musichetta herself is not present when Grantaire arrives to call on Joly, but Bossuet is asleep on Joly’s bed, though he is quick to wake when nudged just so. Joly is happy to pause his studies, and even without previous warning of Grantaire’s imminent arrival he keeps a sufficient amount of wine for them to enjoy an evening together.

“It was only when I protested,” Joly recounts, “That to be sure, L’Aigle stands the better kisser out of the two of us, that she claimed it would require a proper judgement.”

“She allowed each of us a single kiss, but in the end the Mademoiselle could not make up her mind,” Bossuet sighs, grinning down into his cup.

“Musichetta seemed to think it required deeper study, but that perhaps the judgement should not be solely up to her.”

“Which is ridiculous, is it not? Joly’s lips are divine,” Bossuet protests, mopping some spilled wine up with his shirtsleeve, pouting at the material.

“Pah! Pale imitation of a masterfully accomplished teacher!”

It is an evening during which Grantaire hardly thinks of Enjolras, but given how much he imbibes, he thinks of hardly anything.

+

Grantaire would very much like to say that he knows it must be Enjolras calling on him, judging from the rhythm of his knocking. The man has appeared on his doorstep so often that by now you would think there to be some familiarity in his approach, a secret code known only to the two of them. But Enjolras is unpredictable in that regard. The temperament of the day’s knock gives some indication to his mood, a slight second to prepare Grantaire for the discussion to come. Today it sounds hesitant, if the action of knuckles on wood may boast such a quality without having been assigned it by too poetic an interpreter, when it draws him out of his lecture for the night. The sun has already fallen past the horizon. Paris is clouded in darkness, as night comes so very early in the wintertime. He has not even heard the bell toll seven yet, but from the look of the street you would think the hour to be closer to three.

The feeling of hesitance is precisely why Grantaire is surprised to find Enjolras on the other side of the door, for it is not a sentiment he would prescribe to the man. Enjolras is bold, Enjolras is certain, Enjolras is unwavering – it is unlike the man to reconsider while already set on a path. But when Grantaire pulls the door open, he looks up from where he had clearly been observing his feet, lips forming silent words, interrupted mid-sentence and wide-eyed. To his credit he straightens his back quickly to nod at Grantaire. Enjolras is rather apt at posturing himself, a skill perfected over his formative years. That, at least, is the first coherent thought which strikes Grantaire, after his mind has circled past recalling the last time Enjolras appeared at his doorstep out of the darkness. He has tried to avoid thinking on that night.

“Good evening. Your presence is somewhat unexpected, forgive my state,” Grantaire gestures to his unbuttoned waistcoat and entire lack of a cravat. “I hope you did not walk across Paris alone at this hour – in this weather – merely to see me. No debate has such urgency attached to it.”

“Courfeyrac has his new lover visiting tonight,” Enjolras responds, clearly taken aback by the abrupt opening of the door. Though his posture is confident, there is something in his eyes that yet gives Grantaire pause. “I do not mean to intrude, only--”

“Then you had best come in. If Courfeyrac’s tales are to be believed you will have no respite from witnessing their exertions for some hours, were you to return to your lodgings. And as you are already here, you ought to stay. Will you take some tea?”

“Thank you, gladly.”

Grantaire takes the opportunity to avoid Enjolras’ insistent gaze and makes for the kitchen, calling out: “Had you not thought to search for a place you may call entirely your own? The job with the printer pays enough to afford you some space, does it not?”

“The urge has not become pressing yet,” Enjolras shrugs, “Though I suppose either Courfeyrac must wish for me to move out or he simply has a taste for unbelievably loud companions, with all the racket of recent weeks.”

“Perhaps you have said something to him recently, the insult of which merited this manner of punishment? Surely he knows it embarrasses you to hear them, as it would most everyone?”

“If I have I cannot think of it at the moment,” Enjolras turns pensive. “He would never say as much, but I feel I cannot indefinitely rely on his selflessness, even weighed against his continued insistence that it poses no problem. A lifetime of friendship notwithstanding, there comes a point at which it grates on a person’s nerves to note so distinctive a lack of privacy.”

“Think of the poor souls living ten to a room in Paris’ slums!”

“Constantly,” Enjolras nods earnestly. He is nothing but earnest whenever talk turns to those less fortunate than him. “It feels rather arrogant to even make the complaint, not to mention ungrateful, all things considered, but I do not think of moving out for my own benefit.”

“No one could reasonably expect you to think of yourself, once in a while,” Grantaire needles, returning to where Enjolras stands after he has set the kettle, “Will you not remove your coat?”

“Ah, yes,” Enjolras bobs his head, glancing around the room furtively. In this, Grantaire thinks, he is not very discreet. “I really ought to, the...you keep your rooms very warm.”

Again, hesitance. The cause of it is easily found in residual awkwardness from the last encounter chez Grantaire, at New Year’s, that night which cannot be thought about for too long. Enjolras removes his winter coat, that burdensome thing, considers Grantaire for a while before he steps close, to take Grantaire’s hands in both of his. The press is quick, and quicker still he withdraws his hands.

“We have not found ourselves alone together in a while. It has been a long time absent your company.”

“No longer than usual. You saw me not two days ago.”

“That was but a brief encounter on a crowded street, as I recall. Hardly an appropriate place to make conversation, do you not think?”

“We have had most of our discussions with no regard for our surroundings. Do you mean to tell me you do not seize every afforded opportunity to cry out in public?”

“Certainly,” Enjolras agrees easily enough, “But that is for politics, for philosophy. Private matters ought to be kept as such, as far as I am concerned. Having to shout against the onslaught of traffic can hardly achieve that. I shudder to think I should become the kind of man to air such matters out for all to see.”

“You tremble at the thought of being overheard? Oh dear, this conversation you mean to have must be of frightening stuff indeed. What will it be today – your private speculation on the nature of how the Immaculate Conception actually came to be or something more scandalous still? I confess to being rather stumped at your intentions.”

“Truly I cannot say I considered Mary’s story much, in my life. I do not recall our debate having ever arrived at the biblical, come to that.”

“As opposed to Courfeyrac tonight, you mean? Well, it just so happens that the entire evening has been freed up for conversation, if you would believe it. We may breach the subject yet.”

The words have the desired effect of making Enjolras laugh. Not deep from his belly – no, that is a much, much rarer treat to witness. But he laughs freely, wholly amused. It serves to set Grantaire’s heart beating quicker.

“I hope you will pardon my forwardness,” Enjolras says, taking a deep, fortifying breath and closing the space between them. His hands are gentle as they bracket Grantaire’s head, nudging his face back just a little so that their lips may more easily meet. Before New Year’s, when last he allowed himself to consider the qualities of Enjolras’ mouth, he thought his lips would be commanding; that his natural confidence would translate easily into such an act. But Enjolras is trembling, ever so slightly, as he kisses Grantaire. His hands do not shake, not quite yet, but his breath is unsteady, and Grantaire does not flatter himself to think his sheer _animal magnetism_ to be the cause of it. Not entirely, at least, for while the kiss is delightful indeed, it is also chaste. Not wholly uninspiring, altogether, but unrealistically the root of Enjolras’ quivering.

It occurs to Grantaire that he is overthinking – that, really, he ought to be returning the kiss, ought to show Enjolras that there is no reason to hesitate, but he does not even know why Enjolras has decided to kiss him. The realization arrives too late, Enjolras is already pulling away. His hands have begun to shake visibly. Grantaire hastens to catch them before they withdraw entirely, before the man withdraws with them.

Under Enjolras’ pained gaze he lifts them to his lips, kisses each hand in turn, and watches some hesitation melt away from a worried brow. He wishes desperately he had a third hand to smooth away the lines that have begun to form. In the absence of such an appendage he supposes he must attempt to achieve the feat with words.

“Your forwardness is entirely pardoned, rest assured,” Grantaire speaks, when he trusts his voice not to fail him. It is rather an effort, for Enjolras continues to look at him, and it continues to render Grantaire speechless. “An explanation, however, would very much be appreciated. That is twice you have kissed me now, if I did not delude myself into imagining it some weeks ago. Granted, the hour was late and some cups were enjoyed, but hallucinations are rather rare, even for me, when I drink only wine…”

“The only suitable explanation to give is that I wished to kiss you. May I take from your words that you are not opposed?”

“I am not,” Grantaire confirms, “How could I be? But what it is you want of me, Enjolras, I cannot say. Do not misunderstand me. There is no doubt in my heart as to why I should like to be kissed by you, to kiss you in return, but you? We spoke of this - taking lovers - some months ago while traversing the public gardens, and it did not seem to me that you desired it. Was I wrong?”

“You are only half-wrong. I do believe what I said was that I do not ponder such matters lightly, that I cannot, as Courfeyrac does, simply pursue whomever I might wish, because there are good reasons for me to be cautious in my pick of lover…”

_Lover._

The word sends a thrill up Grantaire’s spine. If Enjolras were not holding his hands and he Enjolras’ in turn, he might think it were his own that were shaking. He attempts to put the man at ease, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb. He means for it to be reassuring, but he supposes words might make things easier still.

It seems rather obvious to Grantaire now, the man’s hesitance, given Enjolras’ evident youth. He does not have his exact age, but an approximation is enough. Grantaire can hardly recall his first lover, that night is surrounded by metaphorical darkness as opposed to the mere lack of sunlight tonight has left them with, and there is a vague memory of uncomfortable stretches that is almost entirely overridden by the many pleasant nights that were to follow. His companion at the time had been equally untried, but Grantaire is not at all untried now, there is no need for Enjolras to worry.

“Have you never lain with another man before? I promise you it hurts not as much as you may fear if--”

Enjolras smiles, reaches one hand out to tug on Grantaire’s ear, gently. Grantaire follows his cue and clamps his mouth shut. He expels a helpless breath when Enjolras’ eyes turn fond, sure his eyes are returning the look of fondness tenfold. A bit of hesitation slips away, replaced by determination. That, Grantaire thinks, is entirely more like the man he has come to know.

“I am sure you will take care to be impossibly gentle with me, Grantaire, but that is not it. There is something else which complicates – Do you recall when we spoke of Wollstonecraft?”

“With some clarity,” Grantaire nods, “I drank hardly anything that night.”

“We spoke of what defined men, as you evidently have no trouble recollecting. You seemed to agree that a wide variety of them existed within this world…it gave me hope to pursue you despite the caution naturally urged by my situation.”

A new sort of understanding dawns on Grantaire. His eyes widen and he supposes Enjolras takes that to spell out aversion to his revelation, leading to an immediate surge of defensiveness, only it is not at all so. He covers Enjolras’ hand with his own, once more, before it can retreat. Another time would make a habit of the act, at the very least a pattern.

“Then we ought to indeed be careful,” he says, “Thank you for entrusting me with this.”

“You understand what I mean to say then?”

“I believe so,” Grantaire nods, squeezing Enjolras’ hands once, twice for good measure.

“That is all you have to say on the matter?”

“There are plenty of things still to be discussed. One example that comes to mind is how to proceed with – how to go about…becoming lovers, as you wished, if you would. If you would prefer it I have something you may borrow to adorn your own hips with, if it would make you more comfortable, so that I may be the one to... um, well, what I mean to say is that we may proceed however it is you wish to proceed. That is - if you want — we needn’t…”

Enjolras smiles at him, tugs him closer by their intertwined hands and kisses him quiet. Grantaire allows himself to be shut up thus.

“There are many things I want, Grantaire. For the moment I quite want to keep kissing you.”

“Most easily arranged and requiring hardly any discussion beforehand.”

“Rather conversely it requires you to hold your tongue for a moment.”

“A challenge, indeed – perhaps you should like to try holding it for me?”

Only when the kettle interrupts them by beginning to whistle loudly do they break apart laughing.

+

Enjolras in repose is a beautiful sight. Now that Grantaire suspects he may observe as he wishes, it is easy to grow addicted to the act. Unfortunately for him, Enjolras wakes up at but a slight touch, as Grantaire is attempting to leverage a curl away from his lips, to which it has been stuck there during the night. He opens his eyes. Upon recognizing Grantaire, he smiles slowly, reaching to grasp his wrist and pressing a soft kiss to the pulse running beneath the skin.

“Good morning?”

“Very good indeed,” Enjolras agrees. “I cannot believe I was brave enough to attempt what I did yesterday.”

For a brief spell, Grantaire fears that Enjolras has grown doubtful already, that it is regret which causes him to say such things. But he is smiling. Grantaire must believe in that.

“I myself have trouble believing last night happened,” Grantaire agrees, propping himself up on one elbow to better caress Enjolras. “But if it has indeed been more than a dream I am very glad for your unrelenting courage. At the very least it is good that one of us should not be a coward.”

“I meant to seduce you much earlier, truth be told,” Enjolras shuts his eyes, laughing nervously. “Needless to say you did not play along, but the scheming was nefarious anyway.”

“Oh?” Grantaire wonders, delighted. “Do you mean to tell me that offering me a kiss and dropping into my bed at New Year’s was a ploy to gain access to my body?”

Enjolras presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, unable to stifle a laugh. “I had not slept in two days, I did not even mean to kiss you that night and was greatly embarrassed at my own comportment.” Here, he turns serious: “To be quite honest, Grantaire, I thought you were angry at me for having done so. Even through my tired eyes I could see the kiss had disturbed you, so I fled, thinking I had ruined our friendship, and then you were nowhere to be found, once calm returned to me.”

“Disturbed only inasmuch as it offered me a glimpse of what I thought I could never have,” Grantaire sighs. “Come now, all is forgiven.”

“Then will you permit me to make one more confession?”

“If you must,” Grantaire sighs, pretending at ennui.

“I am no master with a cravat, that is true, but I know how to produce slightly better knots than I pretended.”

“My, my, what a schemer dear Enjolras is, a deceiving seductor!”

Enjolras turns onto his side, attempting to glare at Grantaire but breaking into an embarrassed smile. “Hardly, I accomplished nothing but Courfeyrac’s teasing that night.”

“I would not say that,” Grantaire assures him, rubbing his arm encouragingly. “You accomplished quite a bit within my pants that I could never admit to in polite company.”

“And yet you did nothing…”

“‘ _Forgive them, for they know not what they do_ ,’ if you will allow the blasphemy,” Grantaire muses. “I thought you too noble to suspect you of anything untoward.”

“You thought me _innocent_ ,” Enjolras smiles, his eyes drifting closed as he trails his foot up Grantaire’s calf. Grantaire leans forward to press a tender kiss to his nose.

“Well, Enjolras, you did tell last night that you are a virg—”

Enjolras retrieves the pillow from beneath his head and thwaps Grantaire. It serves him right.

+

Falling snow takes to Enjolras’ hair avidly, dotting it at first until heavy assault leaves his curls sopping wet once he arrives at Gros’ studio. Thankfully the man himself is absent today, else Grantaire would have to suffer yet another ode to angelic curls and divine bone structure. It is not as though Grantaire has failed to notice these things - his own head is perfectly capable of creating these odes himself - but to hear them spoken from Gros himself, to hear Enjolras so idealized annoys him, for it misses the point entirely and only serves to demonstrate why he feels Enjolras should not be drawn. Gros knows only an incomplete version of Enjolras, Gros has never heard him speak of injustice and has never seen him stoke the fire in fervent eyes hoping for change.

Though, to be entirely frank, it is a temptation, to preserve this picture before him, forever.

“When I set out I meant to ask you to join me on a walk, only I think that would leave us both rather unhappily drenched,” Enjolras frowns, wiping some moisture from his face.

“Entirely likely,” Grantaire concedes. “Let me see if I do not have some spare clothes around here. You are in need of them and I do not think you would enjoy a toga.”

“Another day, perhaps,” Enjolras agrees readily. “March seems a fitting time to don one and gather near St. Cloud.”

“Ha!”

Grantaire rummages around the chest until he comes upon an old, black shirt. It will have to do. He does not expect Gros’ presence in the coming hour but he still takes care to block the door with a chair for the duration of Enjolras’ lack of pants, which truthfully may span a few hours. Sudden artistic inspiration might have struck an artist such as him, and he would not want anyone happening upon him in such a state.

Enjolras, evidently content to remain in the black shirt, peruses Grantaire’s work while occasionally glancing back at Grantaire, who has not moved from the door, pressing his palms back against it as if to ground himself. There is another temptation in the way he watches the path molten snow leaves on Enjolras' exposed flesh without doing what he desires, which is to say, map out these paths for himself.

“This looks appropriately classical,” Enjolras nods towards the piece on the easel.

“Gros thought so too,” Grantaire agrees. “Are you well?”

“Quite well,” Enjolras smiles, “I had lunch with Courfeyrac and Bahorel today. All were agreed that this year should prove fortuitous for our ambitions, though they seemed to think so in part because Bahorel caught the eye of one of the serving girls, as opposed to Courfeyrac, for a change.”

“And you disapprove?”

“She is free to do as she would.”

Grantaire is treated to the spectacular sight of Enjolras’ profile as he looks around the side. “It made me think of a conversation we had once, about love and reason.”

“Ah,” Grantaire colours. “One of my most cynical speeches, to be sure, but I would remind you that you did ask me to elaborate.”

“It made me wonder, is all,” Enjolras continues, “If you think that we too are meant only to enjoy a brief spell of happiness.”

“I would not have it so,” Grantaire confesses. Enjolras arches a brow, then realization dawns on him.

“But you think you have little say in the matter, is that it? When last we spoke of this you supposed you lacked the strength to fight to overcome the challenges naturally presented to all lovers.”

“No one can say how much strength such a thing requires, Enjolras, but I would certainly try if you asked it of me.”

“On the selfish grounds of wishing to keep me by your side?”

“What else?” Grantaire scoffs. “Were I a better man I would deny myself and allow you to realize your dreams, unencumbered by a drunken fool.”

“You think I would be happier without you, and have simply not realized it yet. You are wrong.”

Enjolras crosses the room, towards him, taking his face into his hands and tilting Grantaire’s head so that their eyes meet.

“You have certainly spent a long time thinking about what I think, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have, for I saw how this notion burdened you. I told you even then Grantaire, that you were entirely wrong about the incompatibility of love and reason. Now, I suppose, it falls to me to convince you of my words' veracity?”

“Enjolras…”

“Do you know I care for you a great deal, Grantaire?”

“You know I feel the same for you.”

“Then let us begin by trusting that and we shall only build on it.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> -Géricault's "The Raft of the Medusa" is one of my fave paintings. Scène de Naufrage is the original title. 
> 
> -When Grantaire refers to "300 of a Harem drowned" it refers to an Ottoman myth/story of Sultan Ibrahim, who ruled in the 17th century, executing the entirety of his harem when he learned one of them had supposedly been unfaithful. It's obscure and hard to find authentic details, but the story has stuck around.
> 
> -Amor omnia vincit was kinda Henry VIII's motto when he broke from the Church in the 16th century. Translates to "Love overcomes all"
> 
> -All the games Grantaire mentions are real and contemporary, though I can only play Briscola. It's fun. 
> 
> -Atropos is one of the Moira (read: the Greek Fates) and she cuts the cloth of time spun and measured by the other two
> 
> If you have questions about any other obscure references I didn't pack into the end notes, don't hesitate to ask. :) Would greatly appreciate comments!


End file.
